


The Cold Side of the Pillow

by theOther_Will_Grayson



Category: The Adventure Zone (Podcast)
Genre: Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Panic Attacks, it's short and sweet, maplekeene is OUT, the inherent homoeroticism of carrying your coworker through hell
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-29
Updated: 2020-09-29
Packaged: 2021-03-07 17:14:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,276
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26711263
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theOther_Will_Grayson/pseuds/theOther_Will_Grayson
Summary: The night after they survived hell, Argo can't find the cold side of the pillow.
Relationships: Master Firbolg/Argo Keene
Comments: 7
Kudos: 39





	The Cold Side of the Pillow

**Author's Note:**

> Hey! Thanks for clicking, it's my first TAZ fic. My tumblr is into-the-clintoris if you're interested. No idea how popular this ship is, but like,,,the firbolg carried him through hell. c'mon people. Anyways, this is fairly lightly tagged so let me know if anything else needs a tag and I'll add it. It's a little intense, but kinda based on how I react to this kind of thing. Enjoy!

Argo flips his pillow for the millionth time tonight, but of course the other side is still warm. His comforter is haphazardly jumbled at the end of his bed, and even the thin sheets seem to roast him from the inside out. It’s hot, and he thinks this while also telling himself he’s not crazy, despite the fact that Fitzroy grabbed an extra blanket before going to bed to protect against the chill of the night air and the stone walls.

With a sigh of defeat, Argo sits up and shoves the sheet into the blanket graveyard at his feet. “Hey, Gary,” he whispers. “Are you awake?”

“Yeah!” the gargoyle whispers back, though his voice is still inexplicably tinged with that harsh dialect. “I’m just a hivemind crammed into a statue! I don’t need sleep!”

“Right,” Argo grimaces, as he always does when Gary spouts that existential crisis-inducing nonsense. “What time is it?”

“Three seventeen a.m.” Gary replies. “And you need to be up by eight, so if you fell asleep right this second, you’d get about four hours and forty three minutes of sleep.”

“Lovely.”

“Of course, that number dwindles with every second you stay awake, so you should really—”

“ _ Thank you, _ Gary,” Argo bites, still in a whisper.

“Okay!”

Argo flops back down onto the mattress, suppressing a frustrated groan. He is exhausted to his very bones, but every time he lets his eyes drift closed, rubble drifts past his vision, bits of rock in shades that don’t exist and shapes he can’t quite perceive. He feels that burning again, and he rubs at his eyes, but that just makes the aching worse. He’s in sensory hell. Literal hell. His senses are bombarded with confusion and discomfort. He can taste burning pain and see putrid smells, hear acid and feel every decibel. The worst part? He knows in his gut, in the depths of his very soul, that this torture is unending. He will feel this agony forever. He will always feel this way, and the sooner he accepts this, the sooner he can—

“Wake up.”

Argo unleashes a guttural scream, thrashing against the large hands restraining him. He doesn’t know whose they are, all he knows is he needs to get away from them. He clutches himself to his chest, kicking and pushing himself against the wall in blind panic. 

“Argo, it is me.” The Firbolg’s voice is sharp, yet comforting, like a twist of citrus, but rationality has left him, and despite the tug back to reality, the panic remains in his gut.

“Oh gods,” he whimpers, pulling his knees to his chest and gripping his hair, which has turned indigo with sweat. “Gods, I—”

The Firbolg places a hand on his shoulder, but even the simple touch is too much for his overloaded senses. He flinches, gripping his hair harder and letting out a distressed moan.

If the Firbolg takes offense, he doesn’t show it. “Alright,” he says. “I vill not touch you until you are ready, ah?”

Argo can’t even find the wherewithal to nod. All he can do is breathe rhythmically into his knees and listen.

“Alright. I vill just be here and talk to you. Rainer says I should do...vat did she call it? A-S-M-R. I do not know vat dis is, but I think she means that my voice is...soothing. I vill talk and you vill focus on deep breaths, hm? I am a creature of few words. I do not usually...monologue. For you, I vill do dis. For you, I vill do anyting.”

Argo feels his breaths even out ever so slightly.

“Vat is truly amazing is, you yelled wary loud, and yet Fitzroy still snores like a bear. He does not stop for anyting. De war could start right now and Fitzroy would still snore.”

Argo laughs, though a bit hysterically and slightly choked. The Firbolg seems satisfied with this, letting out a hum of approval at his work before continuing. “In de forest, vinter is de hardest season. Every animal prepares for dis, gathering...nuts. Berries. Supplies to survive de harsh cold. And every year, dere is de small but real possibility dat someone vill cause de gods a minor inconvenience and in retaliation dey vill curse de land to an eternal vinter. But dis is a small chance. Most likely, de cold vill pass, and spring vill come again, and de animals vill come out of hibernation to begin de circle anew.

“Friend, I know dat de pain seems like it could go on forever. And I cannot guarantee dat it vill pass, though it most likely vill. However, I can guarantee dat I vill be dere to help ven you need it. All dat you must do is ask.”

Argo finds his hand reaching for the Firbolg. Their hands meet and all Argo can grip is the middle three fingers, but they’re enough. They’re cool, like the faint spray of the sea on the wind, and Argo presses them to his cheek, seeking their cold comfort. “I need you,” he murmurs. “I need...not many people would carry me through hell, you know?”

The Firbolg flips his hand to gently cup Argo’s jaw. He can fit Argo’s neck in his palm and still have enough span to stroke his cheeks with his thumb. 

“Argonaut Keene, hear dis now: I vill carry you any time and any distance until you are safe. I vill  _ never _ leave you behind.”

Argo grips the Firbolg’s arm like an anchor and for the first time, meets those warm brown eyes. Oddly enough, despite the intense relief washing over him as he comes down from his panic, Argo doesn’t feel like crying. He just feels like sleeping, and he could almost just nod off in the palm of the Firbolg’s hand. His eyes struggle to stay open as he mumbles, “Love…” Neither of them are sure whether it’s a declaration or a new nickname. They can decide in the morning.

Argo’s hands climb up the Firbolg’s chest and wind their way around his neck. The movement is sleepy, yet demanding, and it’s the childishness of the motion that causes the Firbolg to chuckle. Argo can feel the low vibrations in the Firbolg’s chest as he hooks his arms under Argo’s shoulders and knees and in a familiar motion, carries him across the room to his sleeping spot on the floor.

He lets his hands fall limply onto his abdomen as his head lolls onto the Firbolg’s chest.  _ Finally _ , he thinks of the conclusion to some goal from earlier he can’t quite remember. All he knows is that the soft surface under his cheek is cool and soothing. Every so gently, the Firbolg lays down, still cradling Argo to his chest, and now Argo is curled on top of the Firbolg like a cat on a cool boulder by a stream. The Firbolg’s chest rises and falls rhythmically, and the heartbeat under Argo’s ear is slow, yet lively, the timpani below the orchestra. It’s regular, correct, the opposite of the impossible physics of hell.

Linen twists in Argo’s fist as he sighs, finally relaxing. The realization hits him suddenly, yet sluggishly in his exhausted mind, like a single dull wave on a windless day: he doesn’t have to feel like hell forever. He can feel this...this sensory bliss however long he wants.

“Sleep now, Argonaut Keene,” the Firbolg murmurs, placing a broad hand on Argo’s head to cradle it to his chest.

And if Argo feels a gentle kiss at the crown of his head as he drifts off, well...that’s a company secret.


End file.
